Heart's Blood

chapter eleven

After the careful watch that had been kept over me since the fire, the plan that had seen one friend after another come up to sit with me, now Anluan had left me alone save for the child and the hound. He had completely flouted his own rules. I was alone to sleep; alone to dream of Cillian and of demons. And then I must wait out a day, two days, an endless time until the so-called arrangements had been made for me. I had become a piece of baggage to be dispatched.

It would be easy to give way to sorrow. I could wrap myself up in the blanket, howl my anguish, dream of what might have been. I could cling to every last moment I had at Whistling Tor, I could stay until the bitter end so I might drink in every last glimpse of the man I loved.That way lay madness. I would not go down that path a second time.

I would not wait for anyone’s arrangements. Anluan wanted me to go. I would go, then. There was no guard on duty. The household was quiet. I would pack up my things and head off down the hill. At least that way I would not have to say goodbye to all my friends and have what was left of my heart shredded into little pieces.

I did not weep. As Fianchu slept on and the ghost child lay preternaturally still, watching me between slitted lids, I slipped Anluan’s cloak off my shoulders and hung it neatly on a peg. I changed into the gown I had worn the day I first came to Whistling Tor. I folded the skirt made from the garments of Líoch and Emer and laid it on the foot of the bed. I rolled up Mella’s gray belt and set it on top. I’d have to keep the boots. There was no knowing how far I might need to walk. I packed my spare shift, my nightrobe, my second gown, my small personal items.A cold calm had come over me. Somewhere underneath it a wild creature raged, a hair-tearing, screaming banshee of a woman, but I would not release her until I was gone from here.

No sign of Mother’s embroidered kerchief, though I knew it had been in the oak chest with a sprig of dried lavender between its folds. I looked for it under my pillow, under the pallet, amidst the bedding, on the shelf, but it was nowhere to be seen. I glanced at the ghost child, wondering if she had squirreled the pretty item away somewhere, but her narrowed eyes told me nothing save that she knew I was leaving her. I tucked Róise down the side of my bag. Emer’s russet gown joined the pile on the bed.

My writing box stood next to the tray of untouched food. Anluan must have brought it up from the library. Already planning my departure. Before those visions in the mirror or after? I would not think of that. I lifted the box to fasten the strap more securely. It felt unusually heavy. I slipped off the strap and opened the lid.

A small bag of kidskin lay on top of my carefully stowed materials. When I picked it up there was a jingling, metallic sound that made Fianchu prick up his ears. I carried the bag over to the lamp, loosened the drawstring, peered inside. Silver pieces. My earnings for a summer’s expert scribing. Enough to get me across country and support me while I found Maraid. Enough to ensure I need not sleep under haystacks and in the shelter of bridges; enough to stop men from thinking me easy prey as I traveled. Now, at last, tears stung my eyes: tears of humiliation. I wanted to scatter Anluan’s silver on the floor. I wanted to trample it under my feet. Common sense told me I must take it. The turbulent season at Whistling Tor had not driven out the memory of my flight from Market Cross. I never wanted to be that frightened, helpless woman again.

The bag was packed.The box was fastened tight.The silver was hidden away in my pouch. I sat on the pallet listening to the night sounds from outside: an owl calling, another replying, a whisper of leaves, and perhaps a muttering voice from the courtyard as Rioghan made his nightly rounds, not going over the details of his old betrayal now, but planning ahead, devising ways to make the host into a workable fighting force. How could I slip away unseen if he was there? How could I get out without Fianchu raising the alarm? Doubts crowded into my mind, and with them came the pain. You’re like a beating heart . . . a glowing lamp . . . Why had his wretched mirror of might-have-been shown us together, as if that were one of his fondest dreams, if he’d already decided to send me away?

Don’t forget me.

I started. The mirror; the odd little mirror I had brought down from the north tower. I had heard its voice as if it had spoken aloud, though Fianchu had not stirred. I moved to the wall, peering into the tarnished surface, but all I saw was my shadowy reflection: a woman with red eyes and pasty skin, her dark hair rumpled, her brows creased in a frown.

Take me.You’ll need me.

I unhooked the mirror, lifted it down, opened the bag again.There was just enough room to slip it in.As I did so, I saw that there was another item I had forgotten: the little book I had made, with the translations of Irial’s sad marginal notes scribed in neat half-uncial. It lay on the shelf beside the lamp. I couldn’t take it away. It belonged at Whistling Tor; it was part of the sorry record of Anluan’s family and the curse that lay over them. I set the little notebook beside the lamp, its covers closed.

How long should I wait? I must be well away before Magnus or Olcan or Anluan himself realized I was gone and came after me wanting to impose arrangements on me. If I had to go, I would do it by myself. But I must not go too soon or I might come to grief in the dark before I reached the invisible boundary that marked the end of the Tor. I must wait until the pre-dawn light made it possible to go without a lantern. Any artificial light would be spotted quickly by Rioghan or by one of the sentries on the wall. Suddenly, waiting seemed the hardest thing in the world to do.

In my mind I wrote Anluan a letter along the lines of the sample I had made for him on my first day at Whistling Tor. I love you. I’m proud of what you’re doing. But you’ve hurt me. I don’t understand. That would be honest. Or I could write, In less than a turning of the moon it will be time to gather heart’s blood. But I will not be here. Goodbye, Anluan. We both lost the wager.

I had not expected to get away without some challenges. First was the ghost child, who never slept. She had lain quite still watching my preparations, but when I finally judged the light was good enough and made for the door, my bag over my shoulder, my writing box under my arm, she was suddenly there by my side, clinging to my skirt, shadowy eyes turned on me.

“I come with you.”

Fianchu woke at the tiny sound, lifting his head.

“Hush,” I whispered. “You must stay here; you can’t come with me.”

“I come!” Louder this time. The dog, still slow from sleep, began to get up.

I put down the box, took off the bag, dipped my hand down inside. I pulled out Róise. “I have to go away for a while,” I murmured, crouching beside the little girl.“I need you to stay here and look after her. Can you do that for me?”The deception was cruel, but I could see no other way.

The ghost child took the doll in her arms, cradling her. She said nothing more, but the question was written on her face: When are you coming back?

“I might be gone a long time,” I said. “I know you’ll do a good job with Róise. She needs someone to love her, just like all of us. Goodbye, little one.”

Fianchu was on his feet now, ears pricked, stance alert.Very possibly, he understood enough to go bounding off and wake his master the moment I went out the door.

“Fianchu,” I said, making sure I had his full attention. “Guard her.” I pointed to the ghost girl. “Stay here and guard her!”

Fianchu sat. His little eyes, fixed on me, were entirely knowing. But he was a dog and it was his job to obey.

“Good boy. Stay here until the sun’s up.You too,” I told the girl. “He will look after you.”

I crept out the door, along the gallery, down the steps. Shades of gray inhabited the garden; eyes watched me from under the dark trees. Across the courtyard, a lamp still burned in Anluan’s quarters. The mad woman inside me stirred—go to him, run to him, now, now—but I quashed her pleas. I walked down the path, out the gap in the fortress wall, into the forest.

Nobody came after me. I pictured the ghost child in the bedchamber, the doll pressed to her skinny chest. I imagined I could see in her eyes the pain of yet another betrayal, another abandonment.

My thoughts showed me Anluan, alone in his quarters, staring empty-eyed at the wall, or seated on his bed with his head in his hands, long fingers threaded through his fiery locks. Foolish imaginings. More likely he was working out how to form an army from wayward specters, untrained villagers and reluctant neighbors. Perhaps, now that he had dealt with me, he had put me right out of his mind.

My foot hit a stone. My hands tightened on the writing box. I teetered a moment, then regained my balance. It was not yet light; the woods were full of shifting shadows. As I went on down the track, I felt a tug on my left arm; a tweak at my right shoulder. A whisper in my ear: Wrong, all wrong . . . Poor silly girl, what were you thinking? And on the other side: Wretched Caitrin, sorrowful girl . . . Who wants you? Where can you go? Where can you be safe now?

A pox on the wretched creatures, whatever they were. I would leave. I would find somewhere to go. I did not belong at Whistling Tor. I should never have let myself see it as home. A fool. A cursed fool of a woman.

Oh yes, a cursed fool . . .You cannot stay here.You cannot go home. He’s there, the one who turns you into a helpless child. Poor lonely Caitrin. Nowhere to go, no one to love you . . .

I swatted at the unseen presence by my right ear. The other spoke by my left.

Come this way, down this little winding path . . .

Come with us! Follow us . . .You will be safe forever . . .

Invisible hands clutched onto my skirt and my cloak. They gripped my bag, tugging backwards, almost toppling me. I opened my mouth to cry out a protest, then shut it again. Make a noise and I’d alert Rioghan or one of the others to my solitary departure. Box wedged under my arm, I managed to form the shape of a cross with my fingers.“Kyrie eleison; Christe eleison,” I muttered.

There was a momentary slackening of the uncanny grip; then it tightened again. So much for the efficacy of a Christian prayer. I forced down a powerful urge to scream.

A violent push. I fell.The writing box crashed to the path. Something was hauling on my bag again, trying to rip it from my back. “Stop it,” I whispered, struggling to draw air into my lungs. “Leave me alone . . .”

“Leave her alone!”

The voice was Gearróg’s, and it was Gearróg’s hands that lifted me to a sitting position, then retrieved the box and set it safely down by me. For a while, all I did was try to breathe. The insidious whispers had ceased; I sensed the two of us were alone.

Gearróg squatted down beside me, his plain features creased with worry. From time to time he reached out to pat me awkwardly on the shoulder, but he seemed reluctant to do more.

“Thank you,” I gasped eventually. “You saved me again. Gearróg, I’m going away. Will you walk to the foot of the hill with me? I need you to keep me safe.”

“Me?”

There was a lot in that little word: I hurt you. Aren’t you afraid of me? I failed at my job, and Anluan was angry. I betrayed your trust.

“Please.”

He helped me up, his big hands gentle. I gave him the bag to carry; I took the writing box.We walked down the path together.

“Why would you go away, my lady?” Gearróg asked after a while. He held his voice to a murmur, and his tone was diffident.

“He said I had to leave. Anluan.” Despite my best efforts, my voice shook. “He doesn’t want me.” It hurt to speak this bleak truth aloud.

Gearróg kept walking, steady and quiet at my side.We had gone some distance before he spoke again. “That can’t be right,” he said.

“It is right. He told me, just now.”

A lengthier silence, full of things unspoken.

“He’d be sending you away to keep you safe.”

“No.Well, that’s probably part of it. But he meant forever.”

“Then he’s less of a man than we all thought.” Gearróg’s tone was blunt. “Only a fool gives up his one treasure.”

Tears stung my eyes. I could not let him go down this road. I must be strong. “Where did you go, Gearróg?” I asked. “Rioghan held a meeting. All the men of the host were there, or so it seemed. But Cathaír said he couldn’t find you.”

He held his silence to him like a shield.We walked on.

“You can’t fight the frenzy on your own,” I said after a time. “But perhaps all of you together will find the strength to hold firm against it. Rioghan has ideas about that; he’s clever where these things are concerned. I expect Cathaír and the others will have their own techniques for mastering it. Gearróg, I want you to go back up there and face them. I heard that Anluan spoke harsh words to you earlier. He was upset.Troubled.The fire awoke dark memories for him. I hope you will understand why he was angry with you, even though you had just saved my life.”

“I did a bad thing.”

“You hurt me by accident. I was simply in the way. That wasn’t you flailing around, it was something else using you. Promise me you’ll go back up and join the others, Gearróg.Anluan needs you.You have a special strength in you.You proved it by saving me even when the frenzy was on you.You’ve just proved it again by making those creatures go away. I can’t imagine how you did that.”

“They haven’t gone far.” The words were dismissive, but warmth was creeping back into his voice. “My lady, you’re the one Lord Anluan needs most. And what about us? You changed everything. What’s going to happen if you go away? How can you not come back?”

My eyes were brimming. I bowed my head; I did not want him to see how badly this was hurting me. “I said something terrible to Anluan. Something so cruel and hurtful that it shames me to think of it. Something so bad that he’s never going to want me back. And he . . .” There was no describing how I had felt when I had thought, for just an instant, that Anluan might strike me. Now, I recalled that when sudden anger seized him he would often clench his left hand into a fist in that way. I’d seen him use it to break the mirror. I’d never seen him hit anyone.

“Gearróg, the little girl will need friends once I’m gone,” I said. “She trusts you.”

We were at the boundary. It still lacked some time until dawn, but I could see the shadowy outline of the settlement through the deceptive light, a huddle of dark shapes, the line of the makeshift defensive wall, the flickering points of torches set around the perimeter.Tomas and the others kept them burning all night, fearful of the host.

“Promise me,” I said as the sky lightened towards the true rising of the sun. A bird gave a summons, an upward call of two notes: Come forth! Come forth!

Gearróg held his silence.

“I must go now,” I said.“I don’t want to see any of them from up there; I wouldn’t be able to bear it.Will you promise, Gearróg?”

“Say you’ll come back. Later, when this is all over. Say you’ll come.”

“I can’t. Not if he says no.” I must move on, I must run now, before the sun rose and they found me missing. I must flee before I lost the will for it.

“You say, go up and face the others. But you’re running away.”

I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders. “I have to go and find my sister. I have to face up to my own others, people who wronged me. And afterwards . . .”

“You’ll come back to Whistling Tor?”

Naked hope trembled in Gearróg’s voice. It shone in his eyes and transformed his features, forbidding a refusal.

“If Anluan truly wanted me, if he needed me, nothing in the world would keep me away,” I said, and as the words left my lips I heard a great sigh, not from my companion, but from a dozen, fifty, a hundred ghostly voices out in the forest.The host was watching.The folk of the Tor knew I would not be there in the library tomorrow seeking out answers for them. They knew I would not be working through the grimoires in a quest to end their suffering. I had let them down. I had broken my promise.Yet I sensed that they understood; that the words I had just spoken were enough for now. “Be strong, Gearróg.Watch over him for me.” I looked out under the trees, unable to see the others, but acknowledging their presence. “Be strong. Help him.”

“Farewell, my lady.You have my promise.” Gearróg placed a fist over his heart. He had halted right on the border of the hill, between the guardian trees.

“Farewell, Gearróg.” I turned my back, and as the sky brightened I walked steadily downhill and away.

As if to mock me, the day I left Whistling Tor the weather turned fair, with sunny skies and gentle breezes. It was enough to make me wonder if this was a different world, in which summer had followed its natural course through all the time of my stay in Anluan’s fortress, while mist, rain and bitter cold had clung steadfastly to the Tor.

I held fast to the decision I had made as I packed to leave, that I would not give in to the helplessness that had befallen me after my father’s death. If I had learned anything over the strange summer at Whistling Tor, it was that I must not become the lost soul of last winter again. Never mind that the man I loved had sent me away forever. Never mind that I had been forced to break the deepest promise I had ever made, and abandon my friends in their time of greatest trial. If Anluan didn’t want me, he didn’t want me. It was as simple as that. I would grit my teeth, summon my courage and get on with what must be done.

I did not go to Whiteshore. I did not even go to the settlement at the foot of Whistling Tor. I walked the other way, up to that crossroads where I’d been unceremoniously dumped on a day of mist and shadows. There was no point in waiting for a cart to happen by. I set my feet forwards, making lists of colors in my head to keep out thoughts of Anluan.

It was so early in the morning, nobody was astir. Birds chorused in the woods by the cart track, and somewhere down under the elders I could hear the voices of frogs. Everything seemed swept clean, open to light, full of promise. It felt wrong. Part of me wanted to protest that such a lovely day ill fitted the catastrophe facing the folk of Whistling Tor. Another part of me whispered, You never belonged here, Caitrin. Forget these folk. Forget Anluan. If he loved you, he would never have done this.

For half the morning I walked without seeing a soul. I grew thirsty and stopped to drink from a stream a little way off the track. I grew hungry. My precipitate departure had left me ill equipped to travel far without help. Memories of my flight to the west returned. I suppressed them, making myself move on. My feet were hurting; Emer’s boots were not such a perfect fit after all. The day grew warmer. I took off my shawl and stuffed it into my bag.

A rumbling, squeaking sound and the thump of hooves sent me down under the bushes to the side, wary of carters traveling alone. A pair of stocky horses came into view, pulling a well-kept cart laden with bundles. A man and a woman sat on the bench seat; she had a child on her knee.

I stepped out and waved a hand. A little later I was perched on a sack of grain in the back, on my way eastward. I imagined the mist-clad slopes of the Tor behind me, slowly diminishing until they could no longer be distinguished from the ordinary landscape of fields and woodland. As the cart moved further and further to the east, I did not once look back.

It made a difference having funds. I spent two nights in a village inn, with my own chamber and a lock on the door. I got directions and arranged lifts. I read a letter for a local trader in return for a place on a conveyance that was going all the way to Stony Ford, a settlement about three days’ travel north of Market Cross. Father and I had executed commissions for the chieftain there, and I was fairly sure Shea and his fellow musicians would be known in that house.

My fellow passengers on this somewhat larger and grander cart must have thought me dour and uncommunicative. They could not know the whirl of thoughts that filled my mind every moment of the day, those I fought to banish and those I tried to concentrate on, in particular how to track down Maraid and Shea without going too near Market Cross. If Stony Ford did not provide any clues I must try other places Shea had mentioned when telling us of his traveling life, but those were few and far between. I thought I could recall a town called Hideaway or Holdaway, where the band had regularly played to entertain people at a big weekly market. Lean enough pickings, Shea had said with good humor, but if they stayed on for the evening’s dancing there would generally be a few extra coins tossed their way.

Failing that, I could look for Shea’s family. That would mean a far longer journey, as they lived somewhere well to the northeast, close to Norman-ruled territories. His father’s name I had forgotten, but he had been a master harp maker before his hands were afflicted by tremors, and such craftsmen would be few in any part of the land. I had a good chance of finding him eventually. Eventually. How long would it take?

As the cart rolled steadily on and my fellow passengers chatted about the weather or how long it might be until the next stop, I pictured Anluan, Magnus, Rioghan and the rest of them in pitched battle against Lord Stephen’s army. I imagined the spectral voice filling the ears of the host with poison and sending them into howling, tortured disarray. I thought of Anluan cut down, wounded, dying, while I went from village to village asking about a band of musicians who might or might not have passed by some time earlier. I saw the Latin words of the counterspell clean on a parchment page, useless without me there to translate them. Often I came close to tears, and it was necessary to remind myself that if Anluan had really loved me, he would not have sent me away forever.That worked for a little, until my mind began to tell me that perhaps Anluan had banished me because he thought there was no chance of defeating Stephen de Courcy, and that he and Magnus and Olcan were all going to die, leaving the host leaderless and adrift. Once this perfectly logical idea had come to me, I couldn’t shake it off. It made me cold all through. I sat on the cart’s padded seat with my shawl hugged around me and my gaze set straight ahead, seeing nothing but Anluan’s pale face, his bright hair, his lovely crooked features. Over and over I thought of the unforgivable words I had said to him, and of how he had looked when he heard them.

The journey to Stony Ford took several days. We stopped one night in a hostelry that was a cut above the others. Two of my fellow travelers, Brendan, a physician, and his wife, Fidelma, had shown me particular kindness on the way.They and I sat down to supper to find the other folk at the inn table in spirited discussion about the Normans.

“They say there’s been a treaty signed,” said an old man nursing a mug of ale between knotted fingers.

“If you can call it that,” said another man, grim-faced. “More or less gives away all the lands of the east, and a lot besides, to this King Henry. May the Uí Conchubhair break out in a rash of blisters, every one of them from the high king downwards. That man’s handed our birthright to a bunch of gray-shirted foreigners, as ready to burn a good Irish town to ashes as they are to listen to their own folk.”

“You’d want to watch your mouth,” a third man said, voice lowered.

“War’s not over.”This from an ancient in the corner, who had seemed fast asleep.

“Ruaridh Uí Conchubhair’s not the only leader we’ve got, though he may see himself that way,” said a brawny man at the far end of the table. “We’ll keep on fighting till the last of us lies on the sward with his blood soaking into the breast of the earth. Uí Conchubhair’s gone weak in his old age, if you ask me. He was something of a leader, once, a man almost worthy to be called high king. He’s fallen far.”

“No king lasts forever.” Brendan spoke quietly. “As for Henry of England, I know of this agreement, and you’re right—under the terms of it the high king keeps sovereignty here in Connacht, and in other places where the Normans haven’t yet set their mark. But the fact is, Henry can’t keep effective reins on his own lords—they’ve got used to taking what they want, by force if necessary, from us and from each other. They’ll still be jostling for territorial advantage, treaty or no treaty.”

“They’ve proven themselves no respecters of boundaries,” said Fidelma.

I cleared my throat, regretting deeply that I had not taken much interest in such matters when I lived in Market Cross. I had always believed that Connacht, at least, was safe from invasion.That was what everyone said. So far west, with much of the land too barren for farming, it had not seemed a place the English would want. King Henry’s treaty sounded quite true to that theory.

“Has any of you heard of an English lord called Stephen de Courcy?” I asked.“He—I heard that he threatened to take an Irish chieftain’s holding, quite some way to the west of here. I was told there’s a tie of kinship by marriage between Lord Stephen’s family and that of the high king. That means Ruaridh Uí Conchubhair won’t step in to help this chieftain.”

All eyes turned to me.

“Never heard of the fellow you mention,” said the old man. “But it happens. Place up north, can’t remember the name, they rode in and cut down the chieftain’s men-at-arms; a rout, it was. Put their heads up on pikes afterwards, Northmen-style, as a warning to other leaders not to stand up for what was rightfully theirs. Burned the settlement; killed women and children as if they were less than human.That’s what they think, of course. That we’re no better than dumb beasts of the field. It sickens me.”

“You believe something like that could happen right on the coast of Connacht?” I felt a lead weight in my belly. “It makes a mockery of Ruaridh’s title. A high king should protect his own, surely.”

“Ruaridh’s always done what was expedient,” someone said, lowering his voice and glancing around the room. “That’s why he’s lasted so long. His sons are better men.”

There was a short silence, during which nobody met anyone else’s eyes.Then Brendan said, “I believe I’ve heard the name de Courcy before. I can’t remember in what connection. He’s a youngish man, I think, and ambitious. My brother would know more. He’s very well informed on such matters; his line of work demands it.Why do you ask, Caitrin?”

“My father always said the far west would hold out against the Norman advance. But it seems this treaty is a sham, if our own high king can step back and allow someone like Stephen de Courcy to take territory from one of his own chieftains. It’s wrong that we have no protectors, no leaders of our own who can stand up for us.”

A weightier silence this time.

“Do you have kinsfolk in the far west, Caitrin?” asked Fidelma, concern written all over her kindly features. “Perhaps in the territory of this threatened chieftain?”

“Just friends.” I offered no more. Start to discuss Anluan’s situation in any detail and I would lose my hard-won self-control.

“Give it time,” said the man who had mentioned the high king’s sons. “Connacht will stand, that’s my opinion. There will be new leaders, men with stiffer spines and bolder hearts. Men I’d take up arms for myself, if the call came.”

“You?” queried someone with a chuckle.“That leg of yours can’t even walk straight behind a plough, let alone charge into battle against a line of mounted gray shirts. But maybe you fancy a quick and bloody death.”

“I suppose a man with a damaged leg can still use a bow,” I said with somewhat more emphasis than I had intended. “Or throw stones. Or perform a hundred other essential tasks.” I looked the would-be warrior in the eye. “I commend your courage,” I said.

Now everyone was staring at me, not as if they believed my speech odd, but as if they were interested in why I had made it; as if they wanted to hear my story. But I could not tell it. I picked up my ale and took a mouthful, eyes downcast, cheeks burning.

“Well, Caitrin,” said Fidelma quietly, “if you want more information about this Stephen de Courcy, you couldn’t do better than Brendan’s brother Donal. When we reach Stony Ford, why don’t you stay with us a few nights? You can talk to him and enjoy some good hospitality at the same time. Unless you must move on straightaway, of course.”

“Isn’t it Donal who’s getting married?” I’d heard them talking about it: how Brendan’s brother, a confirmed bachelor close to forty years old, had astonished everyone by deciding to wed a widow with three little girls.“I’d be in the way, surely.”

“Not at all. The place will be full of guests; one more will make no difference. And Donal carries out his legal practice in a separate area of the house.Think about it, at least.”

So Donal was a lawman. This was not simply an opportunity to rest and recover before setting off to find Maraid. It was a chance to begin putting my affairs and hers to rights; the next step in facing my own hardest challenge. My belly crawled at the thought. I did not know if I could be brave enough. Speaking to this man of the law would set me on course for a confrontation with Ita and Cillian. Sooner or later this road must lead me back to Market Cross.

By the time we reached the township of Stony Ford I had seen the sense in accepting Fidelma’s invitation, at least for as long as it took me to get an idea of where Maraid and Shea might be. The purse of silver was not bottomless, and I might have to travel quite some way further. An offer of hospitality in a safe house among good people was not to be refused.

Brendan’s brother proved to be not at all the austere, strict kind of man I had expected, but small and cheery, with sparse mousy hair and twinkling eyes. He delighted in teasing Brendan about anything and everything—the bond of love between them was plain, and it reminded me sharply of Rioghan and Eichri, whose jibes and jests had so unsettled me until I had realized it was all in a spirit of friendship.

The widow and her children were already living in Donal’s house, which was a fine sprawling place of mud and thatch, with a well-tended garden and stabling for three horses. But softly spoken Maeve was not sharing Donal’s chamber at night; she slept in her daughters’ room. This was not from any lack of enthusiasm for the marriage bed, I thought, noting the way Donal reached to touch her plump arm as she served his breakfast porridge, her quick blush as he caught her eye in passing, the sweetness in their voices as they spoke to each other. They would be wed on the fifth day after our arrival; either they were waiting for their wedding night, or the presence of so many guests in the house had made discretion necessary until then.Two of Maeve’s sisters were there with their husbands and a total of seven children, as well as various other kinsfolk. Maeve’s mother, who lived nearby, came over every day with pies or puddings to complement her daughter’s cookery. It was a busy, happy home.

I found myself sharing a bedchamber with a pair of nieces a few years my junior.Watching them put finishing touches to gowns, dress each other’s hair or run outdoors to be children again for a while, I felt a hundred years old.

Donal’s clients kept coming. He and Brendan had both chosen professions in which there was no such thing as a rest, Fidelma pointed out dryly. Despite the steady stream of folk going in to see the lawman each morning, he found time for me on the second day. His study was a haven of quiet after the bustle and noise. He sat at a big desk, on which there were two bound books, a sheet of parchment and a pot of ink. A single quill lay beside this, with a little dish of sand for drying. The walls of the chamber were lined with shelves on which rested numerous documents, set out so tidily that I was quite certain the lawman knew exactly where to find any given item.There was a smaller desk in a corner, today untenanted. On the window sill an earthenware pot held freshly picked wildflowers, purple, pink and blue—the widow’s touch.

“Come in, Caitrin. Please, take a seat. I am a little behind—I’ve given my assistant leave of absence until after the wedding, and I find myself less able to keep abreast of things than I expected. So many distractions . . .” Donal grinned suddenly; it gave him the look of a leprechaun. “But welcome ones, of course. No doubt I’ll catch up in time. What can I do for you, Caitrin? Fidelma tells me it’s about the law of property—not my first area of expertise, I must confess. And, of course, under Norman law, which extends across all areas where Henry’s barons have established themselves, our own legal system no longer holds any weight at all. Mention Brehon law and its long traditions, and a Norman lord or cleric will look down his nose as if you’re an ignorant savage. Such are the times we live in.” He was watching me closely, his eyes shrewd.“I don’t imagine that is what you want to hear.”

“I had believed Connacht safe. It seems that isn’t so. How would matters stand, then, if an Irish chieftain fought for his land and managed to drive back the Normans?” I hesitated. “This chieftain has been told that if it comes to armed conflict, the high king will not support him.There’s an alliance through marriage between the Uí Conchubhair and the Norman lord who wants the land. Which law applies to such a situation, Norman or Brehon?”

Donal’s gaze had sharpened. “This is a specific case, I take it.”

“It is. I’m telling you in confidence.”

“That’s understood. Nothing leaves this chamber without a client’s consent. There are various learned answers I could give you, Caitrin, weighing up treaties, verbal agreements, precedents. But the most honest answer is that in such a situation control of the land goes to the man with the best trained army, the sharpest weapons and the strongest will. I never thought I’d make such a statement; I’ve been trained to trust good Irish law for fairness and justice. It’s served us well for hundreds of years. But there it is. I’m sorry I cannot answer differently, but I have been honest.”

“I see.” I had known the answer already in my heart, just as Anluan and Magnus had. It all came down to one factor: the host. The irony was stunning.The one weapon Anluan had that might, just might, allow him to hold on to his land and turn his people’s situation to the good was the accursed army called forth by his evil ancestor, the very thing that had made Anluan himself an outcast, isolated and powerless. “Thank you.”

“May I ask whether this individual, the chieftain whose lands are under threat, has the wherewithal to make a stand?” Donal’s tone was diffident.

“The situation is . . . unusual. So unusual that folk would not believe me if I set it all out. Donal, there’s another matter on which I need to consult you.”

“Brendan did mention that you were looking for your sister. I can certainly assist you with that, if you wish. It would be a simple matter to send messages of enquiry.That could save you a great deal of time.”

“I’d welcome your help, Donal. But finding Maraid is not the only challenge. Once I do find her, it may lead to something else, something very serious. I believe discussing that would take up quite a lot of your time, and I lack sufficient resources to pay a professional fee.” I glanced at the empty desk in the corner. “It did occur to me that I could pay in another way. As I explained, I’m a trained scribe, and I have brought the tools of my trade with me. I could copy, reckon, make notes for you, write letters and so on.”

He beamed. “Excellent! And since we’re on that track, I should say I believe I met your father some years back—Berach, was that his name? Fine man, did lovely work. I heard of his death.Very sad.”

“He was a fine man, yes.”

“There’s a question I must ask, Caitrin. If your family home is in Market Cross, why not make that the first point of your enquiries about your sister? Fidelma did explain to me that Maraid is married to a musician and has no fixed place of residence. All the same . . .” He lifted his brows.

“May I tell you about our situation at home?” Be brave, Caitrin. “It’s complicated.”

Donal leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. His eyes remained alert. “Start at the beginning, Caitrin,” he said. “Don’t leave anything out. We have plenty of time, especially if you are prepared to deal with some letters for me later today. I don’t suppose you read Latin?”

“I do.” Suddenly, when least expected, tears stung the back of my eyes. If I had found this courteous, capable man before . . . If I had thought to ask for a lawman’s help as soon as Ita and Cillian began to take control . . . But no. My flight to the west had led me to Anluan and the household at Whistling Tor. Even if I had been banished from that place forever, I could not wish that I had not met the man I loved, nor the odd folk who had become my dear friends. This summer had healed me, freed me, opened me up.And, in the end, broken my heart.“I’m happy to write letters, transcribe documents, read and translate—anything you need doing.”

“Excellent. Would you be prepared to stay until my assistant returns? He’ll be back a day or two after the wedding. I think it likely I can track down your sister in that time through my existing contacts.That should be more efficient than your traveling about looking for her. Now let us hear this story.”

I hesitated, wondering how to start.

“You like mead, Caitrin?” Donal had produced a flask and two cups from a shelf. “This is a particularly fine one; Maeve brews it, one of her many talents. She’s planning to keep bees here in the garden, she tells me. Take a few sips before you begin your account. And don’t be afraid of shocking me. In my line of work one hears everything. That’s it, my dear. Take your time.”

Donal was an expert listener; no doubt he had acquired the skill over years and years of hearing the tales of folk in trouble. From time to time he interrupted, gently, to ask for clarification. Here and there he waited in comfortable silence while I composed myself. Once or twice his expression revealed some emotion: shock, pity, surprise.At certain points he made notes on his parchment in a quick, precise hand.

“And so, finally, I ran away. I headed west, thinking perhaps I might find someone who had known my mother when she was a girl, but mostly just wanting to—to be somewhere else, somewhere Cillian could not reach me. I found a place to stay and work to do. I can’t talk about that. But Cillian came. He tried to abduct me. He was . . . driven off. He didn’t come back. I think it likely that if I went to Market Cross, he and Ita would try to convince folk that I was mad, just as they did after Father’s death.They are good at that. Even I believed it.”

Donal had refilled my glass. From outside came the sound of the children at play in the garden, shrieks of excitement, a dog barking, Maeve’s calm voice restoring order. I sat quietly, letting the sweet honey taste of the mead calm me, while the lawman studied his notes, the slightest of furrows between his brows. He no longer looked in the least like a leprechaun. His eyes, sharp and intent, were those of a man who would make the most formidable of adversaries.

“Very well, Caitrin,” he said, sounding almost abstracted. “Without studying this further, I can tell you that it appears the law has been broken not only in relation to your inheritance, but in several other matters. I’ll need a little time to consider the best course of action.”

“I am afraid to return to Market Cross and confront them. I’m not sure I can do it. They . . . they have such a capacity to change me, to make me lose sight of my courage.”

“No need to consider that now, my dear. I do have a question.”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you go straight to the lawman in Market Cross once you had summoned the will to leave the house?”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t myself. All I could manage was to run. Besides, the lawman at Market Cross would have believed me out of my wits, as everyone else did. I had been acting like a madwoman; it was reasonable enough, I suppose.”

Donal’s mouth went into a grim line. “Reasonable? Hardly. No lawman worth his salt would make such a judgment solely on the advice of a woman who stood to gain from your incapacity, Caitrin. He should, at the very least, have sought an independent opinion on your ability to understand your situation and make decisions about your father’s property. Besides, I gather nobody was suggesting your sister was also out of her wits—why didn’t they send for her? You’ve been lied to, swindled, duped most mercilessly, not to speak of the personal indignities this Cillian fellow has visited on you, seemingly with his mother’s complicity.They must both be brought to justice.”

I felt an inner part of me shrinking down.The sensation was all too familiar, and I fought against it.“I want to find my sister first,” I said.“I don’t want Cillian and Ita told where I am. I know I must go back and confront them eventually, Donal. But I’m not sure I’m ready yet.”

“You do want to see justice done.”There was no reproof in this; it was simply a statement of fact.

“I know that is what should happen, yes.” I had heard this already from Rioghan, from Magnus, from Anluan himself. “But I’m afraid.”

Donal put down his quill. “You’re in a safe place here, Caitrin. No need to look beyond that at this point. The situation is complex; I must consider it further before we decide how this should unfold. I’d like your permission to write to a friend of mine named Colum, a senior practitioner of the law, who presides over the district around Market Cross. In strictest confidence, of course.” When I made to protest, he added, “No matter what occurred during that time when you were at the mercy of these kinsfolk of yours, the law will treat you fairly.While not the warmest of men, Colum is absolutely rigorous in his pursuit of justice.That should reassure you. Nobody’s going to suggest that you confront these miscreants on your own. It also occurs to me that we have a physician in the house. Brendan is well qualified to report on your state of mind, Caitrin, and to provide a written opinion that you are perfectly competent to make your own decisions.”

Holy Saint Brighid. I had not even thought of this. It was all moving so fast.

“Have I your permission to write this letter? Or perhaps you should write it for me.That way we can be sure we concur on the wording before anything goes beyond these four walls. Do you agree?”

“I can see it’s the right thing to do. I’d like a little time to think before I say yes, Donal. If you have some work for me, I’ll do that first. It will help clarify my mind.” I longed for the balance of the pen in my hand, the orderly lines of script flowing onto the page, the tranquil silence that attended the exercise of my craft. The children might still be laughing and shouting on the other side of that window, but once I began writing I would not hear them.

“By all means. I will act straightaway on the other matter, finding Maraid for you. The sooner a message leaves here, the sooner you’ll be reunited with your sister. Ideally, we should advise her of the situation concerning the inheritance before we proceed with action.”

“I’ll fetch my writing things—that’s if you are happy for me to start work now.”

Donal grimaced.“There’s plenty of it waiting. I’ll give you some copying to be getting on with; then I’ll leave you awhile. I promised Maeve I’d try on my wedding finery. I imagine I will resemble a small rotund bird that sprouts colorful feathers in the mating season, but if it pleases her . . .”

Some time later I settled myself at the assistant’s desk with the small pile of documents Donal had given me for copying. It was an easy job, which was just as well, for my conversation with the lawman had given me altogether too much to think about.

I opened my writing box. Donal had a supply of quills, but I preferred to use my own and to trim them with Father’s special knife.That, at least, I had brought safely away from Whistling Tor. I wondered what the ghost child was doing, and whether Róise had been any comfort to her. I hoped that Gearróg would watch over her and be kind to her. Perhaps she had already forgotten me.

I had not needed to look in the box since the day I left Whistling Tor, when I had discovered Anluan’s bag of silver and removed it for safekeep ing. Now, reaching deeper to find the padded roll of quills, my fingers encountered something else that did not belong there, something flat and smooth. I lifted out the quills; removed the ink pots each in turn. There beside them, tucked in neatly, was a notebook whose tooled calfskin covers were familiar to me. My heart turned over. Anluan’s book. My hands were shaking as I drew it out and laid it on the desk. My breathing was unsteady as I opened it to see his wayward script wandering across the first page. This is thankless, pointless. It dulls my mind and wearies my body. Muirne is right; it is a road that leads nowhere.Yet I continue with these wretched documents.What else is there but utter despair?

I turned a page, another. More words of despond, scrawled in writing that was near illegible. How could I bear to read this? Why had he given it to me? I turned more pages and came to a leaf that stood out, for most of it was blank. Only, right in the center, was written in the same scrambling script these words: So bright, so perfect, so alive.You do not belong in this place of shadows.What do you want of me?

And, as I recognized without a shred of doubt that Anluan had recorded here my own arrival at Whistling Tor, I put my head down on the desk and wept.